by Ron Goulart
Unfolding the letter, Groucho held it up before setting it on the pulpit. “Olmstead confessed that he was ordered to visit the Lockwood Aero plant and act as a courier to smuggle out copies of stolen papers,” Groucho went on. “Instead, deciding to quit the Nazis, he burned the material he’d been slipped by a German agent inside the Lockwood establishment. His bosses didn’t know he’d done that and kept pressing him to turn over the goods.”
Dinah, who’d been crying quietly, wiped at her eyes with the lacy handkerchief. “The poor son of a bitch,” she muttered.
Groucho continued, “Olmstead had made up his mind to go to the FBI, tell them everything. He intended to do this on the day after Warren Lockwood’s Halloween party. As we’ve seen, he was threatened by a representative of the Gestapo at that shindig.”
“He told them to go to blazes, so they followed him home and knocked him off,” suggested Bockman.
“That makes a nice scenario, certainly something suitable for decoying the FBI,” conceded Groucho, “but not exactly the truth. Let me read you a little more from this letter, which we now know was written the night he was killed.”
Now we were into bluff, using the faked addition to the letter.
Groucho cleared his throat. “‘I’m afraid, my darling, that I have more to worry about than my Gestapo friends,’ wrote Olmstead on the last night of his life,” he said. “He goes on, ‘At the Lockwood party, before I was warned by Spearman’s representative, I was threatened by someone else. They’d found out about my double life, but didn’t want me to confess to the FBI. It turns out that Pearson is an informer, working for them. They fear that the scandal would have a terrible effect on your reputation, Dinah. The public won’t take kindly to the news that Warlock’s most popular box-office star is married to a Nazi spy. They might even suspect, God forbid, that you, too, were a traitor to America. I was warned that I would be prevented from doing anything that might endanger the career of an actress worth millions to her studio. I was still trying to get over the shock of that threat when Spearman’s agent told me that they’d hurt both you and me if I didn’t do what I was told. Before I fainted, darling, I told him exactly what I’d told Warren Lockwood—that I intended to go to the FBI the first thing tomorrow morning and—”
“This is pure fiction,” shouted Lockwood, once again on his feet. “I never had any such conversation with Eric.”
“Next slide, Nan.”
On the screen was the photo of Lockwood and Olmstead arguing.
“That proves not a damned thing,” said the angry tycoon. “Eric and I had a slight disagreement on the film he was going to be directing for us.”
Reaching into the brief case, Groucho produced the .32 Smith & Wesson revolver. “Eric Olmstead was shot with this gun,” he announced. “So was the man calling himself James Pearson. He’d actually seen the killer leaving Olmstead’s home. Dedicated more to making money than to justice, Pearson planned to get a substantial chunk of blackmail money for his silence. This letter, which he stole from Olmstead’s safe, he figured he could sell either to the Nazis or to the killer. As it turned out, his silence came a lot cheaper than he’d anticipated. It only cost the price of a couple of bullets.”
Lumbard asked, “Do you know who that gun belongs to, Groucho?”
“It’s registered to Warren Lockwood.”
A lot more gasping and muttering from the crowd.
“You asshole,” said Lockwood. “I’ll have every damned attorney on my payroll sue you for libel.”
“This would actually be slander,” corrected Groucho, “if it weren’t true. But the Beverly Hills Police have established that this gun fired the shots that killed both Eric Olmstead and James Pearson. They’ve determined that it’s your gun, Warren.”
“I know not a damn thing about anybody’s death,” he said. “The idea that I’d have anyone killed to protect the reputation of an actress is ridiculous.”
“Nevertheless, your gun killed two men.”
Lockwood said, “Then the gun was stolen from me and used by someone else.”
“Next two slides, Nan.”
What the two hundred and some members of the audience saw, in succession, were the two photos Larry’d taken in the parking area. First they saw Lockwood reaching into his car, next they saw him handing a revolver to Val Sharkey.
“Looks to me,” said Groucho, “pretty much as though you sent Sharkey to warn Olmstead again to keep his mouth shut. When he refused, your boy shot him.”
“What Val Sharkey did with that gun after I loaned it to him has nothing to do with me,” said Lockwood loudly.
“Wait a minute, you arrogant bastard,” said Sharkey, jumping to his feet. “If you think I’m going to take all the blame for—”
“Mr. Lockwood,” said Win Mulvane, coming out from behind the chapel flats, “we’d like to talk to you and Mr. Sharkey. If you’ll accompany us to—”
“Groucho,” said Lockwood as two plainclothes cops approached him, “it’ll be a cold day in Hell before you ever get a radio show on my network.”
“Looks like,” said Groucho, “you’ll be able to check the weather conditions there before I can.”
Thirty-three
The following Friday afternoon Groucho was strolling along Sunset, a newspaper tucked under his arm. It was a warm November afternoon, and he was wearing a sedate plaid sport coat, umber-colored slacks, and a new gray fedora.
Billy Barty came walking toward him. The actor said, “Where’d you get that lid, Groucho? Didn’t they have one that fit?”
Groucho said, “Pick on somebody your own size, Billy,” and continued on his way.
At the next corner a tourist bus, about to embark on a tour of the stars’ homes in Beverly Hills, was loading up. The driver, standing near the open door and supervising the loading of the passengers, was the first to spot Groucho. “And here, folks, at no extra cost, is Groucho Marx, movie comedian and erstwhile amateur detective.”
“You have me confused with Erstwhile Caldwell, my good man,” said Groucho, halting. “Though now that I get a better look at you, I withdraw the ‘good man’ phrase.”
A plump woman who was standing in the boarding line asked him, “What’s your next movie role going to be?”
“I’ll be playing the title role in The House of Seven Gables,” he replied. “And possibly in the Yiddish version, The House of Seven Bagels.”
A middle-aged man asked, “Are the Marx Brothers going to make another movie?”
“No, we’re going into the poultry business, due to our wide past experience with turkeys.”
A teenage boy inquired, “How come you’ve never won an Oscar, Mr. Marx?”
“As a mater of fact, I won Oscar Levant once in a poker game, but they made me throw him back.”
A pretty blonde asked him, “Are you ever planning to retire?”
“I retire every evening at about eleven,” he informed her. “If you’d care to drop by tonight, I’ll leave the bedroom window open. And now I must be going.”
“He’s certainly witty,” someone remarked as Groucho hurried on.
“I didn’t notice,” said somebody else.
As he entered Moonbaum’s Delicatessen and headed for his usual booth, a woman seated near the door exclaimed, “Duck Soup!”
“I’m sorry, madam,” said Groucho in passing, “but we already did that bit a few days since.”
Jane and I were already in the booth when Groucho came slouching in. He caught up my wife’s hand, kissing it resoundingly. “You’re looking radiant, Lady Jane,” he informed her. “Rollo, on the other hand, is looking redundant.” He returned her hand, slid in opposite us.
“Why did that woman yell, ‘Duck Soup!’?” asked Jane.
“It’s easier to yell than The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.” Unfolding the newspaper, he spread it out on his side of the table. “Have you folks seen the latest news?”
“The item about Werner Spearman, the German
consul, returning to Berlin? Yeah, we read that,” I replied. “I imagine the authorities used the real-version of Olmstead’s confession to persuade him to depart.”
“They’ll only replace him with another Gestapo lout,” he said. “Still, it’s a small victory.”
“I just heard from Win Mulvane that the FBI has determined that Les Michaelson is in the country without the proper papers,” I said. “If they don’t try him as a spy, he’ll be deported.”
“Another small victory for our side.” Groucho folded up his L.A. Times and picked up the menu. “Meantime, the grand jury has indicted Warren Lockwood and Val Sharkey on two counts of murder.”
“And Lockwood, as he promised,” said Jane, “has seen to it that his network won’t touch Groucho Marx, Secret Agent.”
“Zeppo has a notion we can sell it to NBC,” Groucho told us. “Did Lockwood also sabotage you with Warlock Pictures, my boy?”
I grinned. “As a mater of fact, there’s been a shakeup at Warlock, wrought by the money people in the East, who actually—”
“Money people often frown on having murderers at the helm,” observed Groucho. “Though not always.”
“For the moment, Vince Novsam is in charge of all production at Warlock,” I said. “He wants me to go ahead on the Ty-Gor rewrite.”
“And he’s asked Frank,” added Jane, putting her hand on mine, “to come up with an idea for a murder mystery, to cash in on the publicity you two have been getting because of this case.”
“Well, then, as Spinoza so aptly put it, everything is hunky-dory.”
Mellman the waiter appeared next to the booth. “Your chums have already ordered, Groucho,” he said. “What’ll you have?”
“I’m leaning toward the Blue Plate Special,” said Groucho. “But I’m wondering if that comes in a choice of colors.”
Also by Ron Goulart
Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders
Elementary, My Dear Groucho
Groucho Marx, Private Eye
Groucho Marx, Master Detective
GROUCHO MARX, SECRET AGENT. Copyright © 2002 by Groucho Marx Productions Inc. and Ron Goulart. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
www.minotaurbooks.com
eISBN 9781429924375
First eBook Edition : May 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Goulart, Ron.
Groucho Marx, secret agent: a mystery featuring Groucho Marx / Ron Goulart.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-312-28005-X
1. Marx, Groucho, 1891-1977—Fiction. 2. Comedians—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3557.085 G775 2002
813’.4—dc21
2001058596
First Edition: July 2002